The Roaring Tinker if you like,But Mannion is my name,And I beat up the common sortAnd think it is no shame.The common breeds the common,A lout begets a lout,So when I take on half a scoreI knock their heads about.

From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

All Mannions come from Manannan,Though rich on every shoreHe never lay behind four wallsHe had such character,Nor ever made an iron redNor soldered pot or pan;His roaring and his rantingBest please a wandering man.

From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

Could Crazy Jane put off old ageAnd ranting time renew,Could that old god rise up againWe'd drink a can or two,And out and lay our leadershipOn country and on town,Throw likely couples into bedAnd knock the others down.

From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

II

My name is Henry Middleton,I have a small demesne,A small forgotten house that's setOn a storm-bitten green.I scrub its floors and make my bed,I cook and change my plate,The post and garden-boy aloneHave keys to my old gate.

From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

Though I have locked my gate on them,I pity all the young,I know what devil's trade they learnFrom those they live among,Their drink, their pitch-and-toss by day,Their robbery by night;The wisdom of the people's gone,How can the young go straight?

From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

When every Sunday afternoonOn the Green Lands I walkAnd wear a coat in fashion.Memories of the talkOf henwives and of queer old menBrace me and make me strong;There's not a pilot on the perchKnows I have lived so long.

From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

III

Come gather round me, players all:Come praise Nineteen-Sixteen,Those from the pit and galleryOr from the painted sceneThat fought in the Post OfficeOr round the City Hall,praise every man that came again,Praise every man that fell.

From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

Who was the first man shot that day?The player Connolly,Close to the City Hall he died;Catriage and voice had he;He lacked those years that go with skill,But later might have beenA famous, a brilliant figureBefore the painted scene.

From mountain to mountain ride the fierce horsemen.

Some had no thought of victoryBut had gone out to dieThat Ireland's mind be greater,Her heart mount up on high;And yet who knows what's yet to come?For patrick pearse had saidThat in every generationMust Ireland's blood be shed.